Title: Taking Risks (3 of 6?)
Authors: DuWinter
Fandom: DWP
Pairing: Eventually Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: For Calliopedawn. I hope I get to the spirit of what you desired. I'm certainly having a good time writing to your prompt.
Setting: Slight AU, and set during the time-frame of the events of the movie.
Prompt: Andy got a job at the New York Times instead of Runway. Nate never existed and Andy was actually into fashion. Andy could go freelance or be offered to write for Runway therefore introducing Miranda :)
Summery: See prompt.
Disclaimer: The Devil Wears Prada and it's characters do not belong to me. No profit being made here. I'm just playing with them for a short while and I promise to put them away neatly when I'm through.
Comment: Comments feed the muse and the Muse is always hungry. Remember, a fat muse is a happy and productive muse. Comments and constructive criticism eagerly encouraged.
Very Special Thanks: to my wonderful Beta Jazwriter. Your help has been invaluable. It is because of people with your willingness to teach that I someday might be a better writer.
Important Note!: A description of Karen Wilson's outfit towards the end of this installment will make a lot more sense if you view this image before reading this chapter.
www.style.com/slideshows/fashionshows/F2009RTW/VWANG/RUNWAY/00170m.jpg Monday September 21st, 2009
Monday found Andy sitting at her desk working when she heard her boss, Jack Prentiss, bellow “Sachs!” from the doorway of his office. As always Andy stiffened when Jack yelled.
As she rose from her desk and walked to his office, she quickly mentally cataloged which articles she'd worked on recently that Jack might be screaming about.
Stepping into his office she asked, “You wanted to see me, boss?”
Jack looked up from his desk, “Editor-in-Chief wants to see you in his office, chop-chop. What the hell did you do?”
Andy blanched, “Hoskins wants to see me?” she stammered. “I haven't done anything...” she stopped for a moment and went even paler. “Except piss off Danielle Gold with that article I wrote for her column...”
Jack nodded and sighed. “Gold's got juice in this paper,” he said quietly. “Get a move on Sachs. Doesn't do to keep the editor-in-chief waiting.”
Andy swallowed her trepidation and hurried from the office.
***
Jack watched as she walked nervously down the hallway. “A shame that Gold bitch doesn't have any talent,” he said softly to himself, his eyes following the woman he desperately wanted to mentor into the journalist she could become. “Sachs, you have more talent for writing in your little finger than that bitch has in her entire body,” he almost whispered. He sighed and went back into his office. Trouble was coming and he knew it. Gold had a hard-on for Sachs, and Gold usually managed to manipulate things in such a way as to get what she wanted around here even though she wasn't widely liked. He nodded to himself. He hadn't known Andy long, but he saw his own fire in her. A passion to say what needed to be said and to do so in clever prose. Writing things people wanted to read and doing it in such a way that it moved people to want to get off their butts and change things.
So many of the reporters he encountered in his professional life had gotten into the business for the thrill of chasing a story. While Sachs possessed that drive, too, it was the writing she loved best. He nodded again more definitively to himself. The decision was made. If it became necessary he'd go toe-to-toe with that bitch Gold, the editor of the Style section, and even the editor-in-chief if it came to that to make sure that Andy got her shot at becoming all she could become.
***
Andy was shown into the editor-in-chief's office and was offered one of the comfortable chairs in front of his desk by his smiling executive assistant. Andy wondered how anyone could manage to do the job of the woman before her. The rush, the thousand and two tasks each day, all while trying to keep the ever changing schedule of an important and busy man like Mr. Hoskins straight and keeping him informed of where he needed to be and what he needed to be doing moment-to-moment throughout the day--Andy was certain that she would suck at such a job. The assistant, Carol she had introduced herself as, inquired politely if Andy would like something-coffee, tea, water--drawing Andy from her thoughts.
“A cup of coffee would be great,” Andy answered nervously, wondering if Carol was this nice to people just before Mr. Hoskins gave them the boot.
Carol seemed to sense her nervousness. As she stood at the credenza that ran along the wall of the office and poured a cup of coffee from the service as she spoke softly. “Don't be worried, dear. This isn't the end of days. It's opportunity knocking. Now how do you take your coffee?”
“One sweet and low and a splash of creamer?” Andy said. She immediately stiffened as she heard the door to the office open and Mr. Hoskins’ voice said, “Oh coffee, wonderful, Carol. Would you please pour me one of those, too?” He came around the desk and sat in his chair.
A moment later Carol delivered two cups of coffee to the desk and looked to her boss. “Will that be all, Mr. Hoskins?” she asked.
“Yes, Carol, that will be all for the moment. Thank you for the coffee, and would you please hold all my calls until I'm done with Ms. Sachs here?”
“Yes, Mr. Hoskins,” Carol replied, walking out of the office.
Hoskins turned to face Andy. “So, Ms. Sachs, I had cause to read the column you wrote on Tuesday...”
Andy tried to breathe, tried to control the building nervousness she felt in the presence of this powerful publishing mogul. “It was wonderful to see something I had written published in the paper, Mr. Hoskins, but I have no idea how it got printed. I just put it in the computer. It wasn't due to go to print until the weekend edition! Jack...I mean Mr. Prentice…said that I had a couple of days. The article wasn't exactly what the paper had asked for, and I hadn't even had time to polish it, and all of a sudden there it was in print...” she babbled.
Hoskins raised an eyebrow at the admission. “You're telling me that what we ran was effectively a rough draft?” he asked.
Andy swallowed and nodded, feeling her eyes tear up. “Yes, sir,” she answered quietly.
“Karen Wilson also told me that you were the one who turned her on to the opening for the art show at that new gallery in Soho. The one we ran a piece on Saturday morning,” Hoskins said.
Andy nodded again, certain that she was going to be fired.
Roger Hoskins nodded at the woman sitting across from him, seemingly satisfied. “Andy...May I call you Andy?” he asked.
Andy nodded again, afraid to speak and desperately fighting the terror that was crawling around in her stomach. Afraid she's start babbling again and end up looking like more of an idiot.
Hoskins sat back in his chair. “I hear good things about you, Andy. Several reporters have spoken to me about how you dig in and even go the extra mile of trying to write in their voice when you are writing copy for their articles. I had drinks with Jack Prentice yesterday evening, and he has nothing but praise for your talent and your work ethic. Management is aware of all the nonsense Danielle Gold has put you through over the last several days. Karen Wilson is impressed at what a team player you are to not take a complaint up the ladder and that you were still willing to bring her department the tip on that gallery opening. She was very thankful for your introduction to the young woman you arranged as a contact. I understand that she was both quite knowledgeable and extremely helpful in the creation of the article we ran.”
“So...” he smiled, “the short version is that you no longer work in the copy and fact checking department, Andy,” he said jovially. “Call maintenance and make arrangements to have the contents of your cubicle moved up to the style department. Your new desk is there. As of evening edition press time this coming Wednesday, you are responsible for the fashion column on Wednesdays and Fridays. You now answer to Karen, and she will have other writing assignments for you with different columns that appear in the Style section. We're going to consider this a probationary period as a reporter for The Times. There will be a bump in your next check to cover the additional responsibility. If you make it through the three month probationary period, you'll draw a starting reporter's salary.”
Andy sat before him with her mouth hanging open. She couldn't seem to comprehend what he was saying. It was all that she had dreamed of. She was to be a reporter for The Times! Not only a reporter, but one writing about something she was interested in! Fashion! She stood from the chair. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Hoskins!” she exclaimed. “Thank you! I won't let you down, sir!”
Roger nodded, still smiling and watched her with amused eyes. “Andy,” he said gently, “Just keep writing like you have been. I don't want people that necessarily toe a company line. Especially not my columnists. Write what you see and feel. Make your readers see and feel it. That's what will sell papers. And selling papers is what the game is about.”
Andy nodded excitedly. “I can't begin to thank you for your trust in me, sir.” she gushed.
He then said something she almost missed in the excitement of the moment. Something she didn't understand. Something about some other powerful figure in the publishing industry bringing her to his attention. A mysterious figure being in her corner. Andy couldn't understand how that would be possible. She didn't know anybody in the industry outside of the people she worked with and the few mid-level employees she had interviewed with at other publications before she'd gotten the job at The Times. Andy just hoped her benefactor would step forward at some point so she could thank the person properly.
***
Danielle Gold arrived at the front door of Karen's apartment early Monday evening. She had been away for a long weekend with one of her harem of lovers to punish Karen for not doing as she was told and getting that stupid copy-girl fired. She grinned as she thought about the weekend in the arms of that other woman. She was a junior partner in a famous law firm on Sixth Avenue. Another mouse of a woman, who, while excellent at her job, was easy to manipulate in her personal life, just as Karen had once been. They had spent the weekend at the woman's vacation house in Cape May at the Jersey shore. More correctly, they had spent the weekend in various states of undress on the fur rug before the large fireplace of that vacation home. Danielle was about to use her key to the front door when Karen opened it, obviously on her way out for the evening. She was dressed to the nines in Vera Wang from the ready-to-wear fall collection. It was something that Danielle didn't like, but Karen had insisted on it because she thought she looked killer in it.
“Hey baby.” Danielle said, as Karen turned and used a key to lock the deadbolt on the door. “I'm back, and I thought we might spend some time together.”
Karen looked her up and down and then shook her head. “Can't tonight,” she answered. “I have somewhere to be.”
“What?” Danielle said haughtily, “Another one of those interminable press dinners? Or is it one of those silly charities you volunteer for? Blow it off,” she said, reaching for Karen. “You know you'll have a better time here with me.”
Karen stepped adroitly around the woman who was attempting to block her path. “I said I can't, Danielle,” she said, looking up and down the street for a cab.
“Really,” Danielle said. “What's so important that you'd pass up an evening of making it up to me that you didn't get that silly little bitch from copy fired like you should have?”
Karen turned, and for the first time in a long time Danielle saw her smile, really smile, like when they were first together. “I have a date.” Karen said softly. “Now if you'll excuse me, I see a cab coming,” she continued, waving her arm at the cabbie.
Danielle stood there for a moment. Karen had a date. Not possible, she thought. She had Karen completely under her thumb. A little attention, good sex, and a kind word now and then, as well as the proper application of ignoring her and spending time with other lovers when Karen didn't do what she wanted, and the bitch was hers to do with as she pleased. She dug in her purse, got the key for Karen's place out, and reached for the front door as Karen opened the door to the cab that had stopped at her signal.
“Don't bother Danielle,” Karen said, sliding into the back of the cab. “I had all the locks changed yesterday.” The door to the cab closed and the cab sped off, leaving Danielle standing on the sidewalk wondering what had just happened.
Tuesday September 22nd, 2009
The other shoe dropped for Danielle Gold mid-morning. She had wandered into the office late as usual and discovered a message on her desk summoning her to Karen's office. Smiling wickedly, she sauntered across the newsroom and stepped through the office door. “I suppose,” she said lazily, leaning against the door frame and suggestively running her finger up and down her collarbone, “that you want to apologize for being in a snit last night.”
Karen looked up from her work. “Actually, Danielle, she said softly, “I called you in to tell you that we're going to be making a few changes around here. Hoskins has sent up a new columnist. She'll be writing your column two days a week.”
“Is this Hoskins' department now?” Danielle asked caustically. “Or are you the editor? Oh, I guess I shouldn't bother to ask. You've never had the spine it takes to make any decision of your own. You even need to be told what you like in bed.”
Karen's face tightened with anger, her relaxed posture disappearing in the space of a few heartbeats. She stood from her desk. “Be very, very careful what you say next Danielle because at this moment your job is hanging by a thread. If I say I've fired you for cause, there's nobody in this building that's going to do anything but applaud. Now, I'm giving you a chance. You can continue to write the fashion column four days a week, including the weekend column. I'm not cutting your salary although you'll have two days less responsibility. What you are going to do is keep your head down, do your job, and you're going to leave Sachs the hell alone! She's going to get her shot because that's what my boss wants!”
“Sachs!” Danielle nearly shrieked. “You're going to let that stupid little slut write in my column?! Why!? Is she doing you under the desk?!”
Karen's eyes narrowed. “Danielle, that's the last straw. Go back to your desk! Get out of my sight! And if you want to keep your job, stay the hell out of my way!” she said, her volume and angry tone increasing with each word. “You and I are through!”
Danielle recoiled as if slapped, then she advanced on Karen's desk angrily. “You're saying we're through? HA!” she exclaimed. “We were through last night. I was just coming over to try to let you down easy. Thought I'd give you one last mercy fuck. God knows it'll be a long time before you get another one. Nobody but me can stomach your ugly face. ”
Karen’s smile staggered Danielle, as did Karen's slight blush. Danielle knew immediately what it meant-Karen had already found herself another girlfriend, and Sachs was the only likely candidate.
***
Evening edition press time found Danielle sitting in her office feeling quite pleased with herself. Between the article she had faxed in for yesterday and the one she'd just completed for today, she hadn't missed reporting on any of the fashion-related events that had occurred over the weekend. It didn't really matter that she hadn't attended any of them. She had the pre-publicity packages. She knew which designers were worthy of praise and which of condemnation without ever seeing what they showed. She knew who her friends were, and they were the ones who would reap the rewards of positive publicity through her column. And adding to her sense of satisfaction, now she knew that she had the upper hand over a new enemy. Andy Sachs had dared to try and take what was hers. She must have seduced Karen to get this chance. It was the only thing that made any sense. Danielle was sure, however, that by reporting on all of the fashion events over the weekend, she had left little for the new columnist to write about in her first column. And this was the big leagues. A bad first column was a death knell as far as any future as a columnist at this paper was concerned.
Now that Sachs had been dealt with, it was time to take punishing Karen for her perfidy to the next level. She'd spend some extra time “reassuring” her lawyer this week that she was the only woman for her, and next week she'd get the woman to initiate a lawsuit against Karen for sexual harassment in the workplace.
Wednesday, September 23rd 2009
Morning found Andy's desk littered with empty coffee cups and crumpled pieces of paper from her early attempts at composing what was to be her first regular column printed in the paper. This one wasn't about an event like at the MoMA. Danielle Gold had made sure to cover the fashion show scene that had occurred over the weekend in her last two columns along with an additional nasty tirade aimed at the Ice Queen of fashion, leaving Andy with a big empty hole where her column should be. She had started on a number of ideas and discarded them after writing a few lines. None of the ideas she had felt right. She needed to find something she was really passionate about for this column. Now, with her time running out, she looked at the latest cup of nasty newsroom coffee on her desk and decided it was time to take a walk and get some fresh air, clear her head so she could write something worthwhile and deliver it on time.
She left The Times building with no real direction or destination in mind and wandered the streets of Manhattan lost in thought for about an hour. It was a cool morning for September, and Andy hadn't bothered with a coat when leaving the office. Spying a Starbucks, she decided to stop for a cup of hot coffee that wouldn't eat her stomach lining. She entered and got in the line of people impatiently waiting to order. A very fashionably dressed attractive young woman loaded down with bags festooned with designer logos joined the line immediately behind her, seeming particularly impatient and nervous. She continually checked her watch and looked fearfully at her cell phone. Andy ordered an extra hot venti latte, paid the tab, and moved to the side, waiting to be called when her drink was ready. It was then she noticed some kind of meltdown occurring at the register. “Oh God! What do you mean you didn't get the order?!” the fashionably dressed woman exclaimed. “Emily swore she called it in!”
The barista behind the counter shook his head. “I can have it ready for you in, like, five minutes,” he replied.
The young woman looked close to tears, “Five minutes!” she cried, It's a tall, super hot latte! What takes five minutes?!”
The barista looked bored. “Auto World called in their order. That has to be done right after that lady's,” he said, nodding towards Andy. “Then we can get to your order.”
Andy heard the barista who was making drinks call out her venti extra hot latte and took pity on the girl. She grabbed her drink and stepped back toward where the young woman stood still pleading with the little snot behind the counter. She reached out and offered the latte just as the woman said, “It's for Miranda Priestly for Gods' sake!”
Andy had spent a large part of Monday and Tuesday reading much of the last year’s worth of fashion columns from The Times. She also had read Runway religiously cover-to-cover. As the confused woman looked at the cup in her hand Andy said, “One venti latti, extra hot.” The woman blinked at her and then practically snatched the cup from her hand, but as their fingers brushed, the bare bones of Andy's column-to-be coalesced in her mind in an instant. She knew what she would write.
The woman clutched the cup of coffee to her breast as if it were a wounded bird some predator might try to take from her. She looked at Andy. “I don't know how to thank you. You’ve saved my life!”
“Don't worry about it,” Andy chuckled. “You've already returned the favor.”
The woman rushed out of the Starbucks so quickly that Andy momentarily wondered if she'd stop to look for traffic before crossing the street or if Andy would be reading about her in The Times, having become another of the pedestrian injury statistics. Then Andy got back into line and, pulling her notebook from her purse, waited patiently as she started outlining her column. There would be background to check, columns to re-read, but if she hurried, she could deliver her column by press time.
Thursday, September 24th, 2009
Miranda rode in the back of the town-car on the way to her offices at Runway. Traffic was being more difficult than usual, meaning that at the moment the car was sitting and not moving at all. The sirens close-by likely meant that there was a fire or accident somewhere in the close vicinity and that roads were likely closed, causing gridlock. Miranda huffed. She was busy, had things to do. There were the newspapers on her desk. Including last night's evening edition of The Times. That paper might be the one in which “her” mystery writer would again appear in print. She glanced out the window and saw a news stand on the corner. Looking at traffic she determined that the car wasn't going anywhere for the next few minutes. “Roy,” she said to her driver, “I'm going to step over to that newsstand and buy a paper.”
Three minutes later she was back in the car and reading Andy -Miranda shuddered-- Sachs' column.
My distinguished colleague, Danielle Gold, has chosen over the last many months to engage in a, what one would politely call, spirited exchange of ideas with the editor-in-chief of Runway magazine. After reading Ms Gold's columns and having been an avid reader of Runway since I was old enough to recognize words, I feel that it is time I enter this debate.
Ice Queen, Dragon Lady, Devil in Heels. All of these are sobriquets applied to Miranda Priestly of Runway. She is a figure that strikes terror into not only her employees but to those even outside of the publishing field. What I ask is “Why?” Her elegance and panache for fashion and style is undoubted. She is unquestionably a powerful woman, one who has risen to the pinnacle of a male-dominated profession and remained for more than two decades. She wields the power that she has earned through her own skill and genius-yes, I'll say it again because it bears repeating-genius. If a man were in her position, would anyone question the editor’s demand for perfection, particularly since the results are attached to her name? I submit that no one would.
As for the argument I now enter. After careful consideration I find that I must also, regretfully and with respect, disagree with my colleague here at the paper as to the nature of how fashion progresses from one stage to another. Ms. Priestly's contention that fashion evolution is like the evolution of organic species seems correct to me. If one looks at the history of fashion, a style will remain “in fashion” until some designer presents a truly new, innovative, and original idea to replace it, causing one of the fits and starts Ms. Priestly so eloquently describes...
With a strange flutter in her stomach and a blush spreading down her neck, Miranda continued to read the words of “her” columnist.
***
Mid morning found a breathless, frightened Emily seeking refuge in Nigel's office. Nigel looked up from the light table where he was viewing negatives of the latest photo shoot. Emily paced frantically back and forth in front of him. “Nigel,” she said, just above a whisper-it was widely believed that Miranda could somehow hear anything that was said inside the Runway offices-“Something bad is happening.”
Nigel sat back and removed his glasses. Emily was always high-strung and often high-maintenance, but he had learned over the course of their association to listen to her because she often acted as sort of a warning klaxon, sounding the alert that Miranda was in a particularly off mood. The alarm often went off without reason, but better to be over-prepared than caught off guard, he reasoned. He nodded for her to sit down, never having seen her quite this agitated before. “So,” he said gently. “What has you off your trolley this morning?”
She turned and glared at him. “She came in and said good morning to Heather when she handed her coat and bag over. She called her by name, Nigel. Then she smiled at me after giving me the daily list of to-dos. When it came time for her second latte, she said she'd go for it herself. And then as she was getting ready to leave the office, Nigel....” she said swallowing the words and looking around with wide, frightened eyes.
“And then?” Nigel encouraged.
“And then she asked if Heather or I would like anything from Starbucks! She left the office humming to herself, Nigel! And she was smiling!”
Nigel blinked. He had known Miranda for more than thirty years. Been her right hand for twenty of those years. Only once had he seen Miranda's personality change like Emily was describing. When she had first met and was falling in love with her first husband. The only husband that Nigel believed Miranda had actually loved. Smiling, he sat back as he considered who the lucky man might be...